Chapter Text
Clothes fall away slowly.
Your jacket. His blanket. Your shirt. His breath.
He winces as he shifts down onto the mattress, but waves you off when you try to stop him.
“I got you,” he whispers, voice thick.
You slide over him, knees bracketing his hips, and he lets his hands roam—slow and reverent—up your thighs, across your waist, up your back.
Every inch of you, he touches like it matters.
His fingers trace the curve of your ribs. The dip of your spine. The soft line of your jaw.
“I ain’t ever done this,” he murmurs against your throat.
You blink down at him. “Done what?”
He meets your eyes, and for once, he doesn’t look away.
“Felt like this about someone.”
It hits you so hard you stop breathing.
He strokes your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I don’t know how to be good at it. But I wanna try.”
Your heart aches.
“You are good at it,” you whisper. “Even when you’re scared.”
His hands guide you down, slow and steady, and when he slides inside you, it’s not sharp—it’s soft, tender, full of quiet promise.
You gasp against his neck, body trembling, and he holds you tighter.
“Let me take my time,” he breathes. “Just wanna feel you.”
You start to move together—slow, rocking, steady.
But after a few moments, he shifts beneath you.
You pause. “Daryl—”
“I’m alright,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. Then he gently rolls you, turning you onto your back.
You gasp as the cold sheets meet your skin. He follows you down, his body hovering over yours, supported on trembling arms.
He grimaces as he moves, a soft hiss of pain slipping past his lips.
You reach up instinctively. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours. “Wanna see you. All of you.”
You fall silent.
Because he means it.
He pushes inside again—deep, slow—and this time, he’s looking at you. Not away. Not through you.
At you.
His hips move in a steady rhythm, careful of his ribs, but still full of need. His body fits against yours like you were made for this—like he’s finally letting himself have you completely.
And he watches you.
Every breath.
Every gasp.
His hand slides up to your face, thumb stroking your cheek, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead.
“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Don’t know what I did to deserve this.”
Tears sting the back of your eyes—not from sadness, but from the weight of it. The honesty in his voice.
He leans down and kisses you—soft and aching, hips rocking deeper, his pace picking up while still being gentle.
Your hands roam his back, fingers splaying over his scars, his skin, his pain. You hold him like you never want to let go.
And when it happens—when you both fall—it’s quiet and shaking and real.
You cry out softly, clutching him close, and he buries his face in your neck as he follows, body trembling, voice breaking on your name.
After, he doesn’t pull away.
He stays inside you, chest pressed to yours, his hand still stroking gently through your hair.
And the whole time—
He doesn’t look away.